


Sensitive Discoveries

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has No Genitalia, Connor abusing the intended function of a washing machine, Feelings, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Ken Doll Crotch Connor, M/M, Masturbation, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25691446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Connors finds out that the washing machine can be used for more than just washing clothes.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 22
Kudos: 225





	Sensitive Discoveries

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how this got past 1k

“You know you don’t have to do everything for me, right?” Hank sounds beyond exasperated, following him through the house as he methodically collects discarded clothes. “It’s not your responsibility.”

“I know,” He preconstructs a way to sidestep the other man, smiling to himself at the ‘oof’ that escapes him when he decides to nudge him out of the way with the basket for good measure. “but you let me stay here for free, the least I can do is help around the house.”

Hank trails behind him to the garage, apparently not willing to drop the subject without a fight.

“It’s not like you cost much.” He grumbles, then adds. “And you don’t owe me anything.”

Connor smiles a little at that, a soft upturn of his lips that he’s quick to hide, busying himself by putting the clothes into the machine. “I’d still like to help, at least until I can find a job.” He’s precise as he measures out just the right amount of detergent, even if Hank’s told him time and time again that he goes overboard striving for perfection.

“Markus getting anywhere with that?” It’s one of the many things he’s learned to love about the other man, how much he genuinely cares about their plight. It’s impossible to believe that just months ago he’d hated androids, even if that hate had in reality just been displaced grief.

“I’m not sure.” He says, turning to face Hank fully, leaning back to just barely perch on the machine, trying to master the art of posing casually instead of, as Hank had helpfully put, looking like he has a stick up his ass. “I’m not as up to date as I’d like to be-”

Hank interrupts him by leaning forward, close enough for him to take in the interesting scent of a new cologne, to press the machine on, muttering halfheartedly that Connor’s getting forgetful. He can only utter an embarrassed ‘thanks’, not willing to admit that he’d got distracted. The machine beeps and Hank leans back from his space, a few seconds passing before it suddenly whirs to life underneath him.

“Oh-” He startles, jumping off the machine and Hank just chuckles at him, apparently not noticing the flustered flush on his cheeks as they head back inside.

Logically, he knows what just happened, but thankfully it doesn’t seem that Hank does. The plating under him still feels as if it’s humming, trying to process the sudden influx of sensation he’d just been surprised with. His sensitivity levels had already heightened themselves from Hank pressing into his space, his scent and large presence all he’d been honed in on, until the vibrations had started under him – against him.

Luckily Hank seems completely unaware of his current predicament, instead of noticing Connor’s turmoil he’s making moves to put some shoes on, not bothering to put a jacket on thanks to the mild Spring weather. “I’m gonna go do some shopping, you coming?”

“No.” Hank raises an eyebrow at his blunt answer while his processors try to construct a valid excuse for himself. “I...” Sometimes being deviant is a curse. “Was going to run some updates.”

It’s a good enough excuse, apparently, because Hank moves to leave on his own, even if he does shake his head in bewilderment at Connor’s stilted answer.

“You’re not taking the car?” He asks when he notices the keys left laying on the record player.

“Nah, might as well get some exercise in.” He swings open the door. “Have fun with your updates.”

Then Connor’s left alone. Utterly still, preconstruction software estimating how far Hank has managed to walk based on his average speed. He’s had enough time to notice if he’s forgotten something and come back if he’s two blocks away now. Connor waits the amount of time it would take for Hank to come back but there’s no sounds to indicate his presence, it’s silent save for the rumbling of the machine.

Once he’s reasonably sure it’s safe, he practically sprints his way back through the house, slamming the garage door shut behind him.

His target is still whirring away and he proceeds towards it almost like he’s approaching a wild animal, hand drifting down to press against the sensors that had been activated before, the ones that run under him, between his legs. He wasn’t created with a component there, although he could install one if he ever desired. But even without a genital component the sensors there still register as an erogenous zone.

He bites down on his bottom lip when his hand presses experimentally against his mound, fingers trailing down the seams that connect at his legs. He doesn’t have to check to know that the skin on both his hand and blank plate have melted away. With no barrier, the exposed white of his chassis is hyper-sensitive, designed for both connection with other androids as well as pinpointing minute damages in need of repair. Another press of his hand causes a particularly powerful jolt, the other reaching forward to desperately grasp at the machine and brace himself, unsure whether his legs can keep holding him up against such a sensory assault. It only makes everything worse, the intense vibrations of the machine feel as if they pulse through his chassis, dermal layer struggling to maintain itself as he shakes, spots of white beginning to appear seemingly at random across his skin.

The only thing he can think about through the influx of information is that he’s glad he waited until Hank left to try this. He can’t even hear if he’s making any noise past the notifications crowding his sensors, though he can tell that his mouth is open so he can only guess that there’s some sort of sounds leaving him.

He’s done this before, on nights when he’s struggled to go into stasis on the couch, too much thinking about the other occupant of the house leading to him spending hours with his hands shoved down his sweatpants, hands manipulating the sensors there until he overloads. He’d even started shamefully stealing away items of Hank’s clothes, a shirt left out in the bathroom, a pair of boxers forgotten at the bottom of the laundry bin, just to find out how different fabrics and textures will feel against his him. A personal favourite so far has been Hank’s old hoodie, the sensation of its well-worn fabric tips him over the edge faster than anything else he’s found so far, or maybe it’s because, thanks to its size, he’s able to both rub against it and press his face into it, able to smell Hank’s scent on it as if the other man was right next to him, as if it was Hank doing these things to him.

Maybe this will be the thing that finally overtakes it, a simple machine that’s somehow managed to get him so close to the edge without him even really pressing against it. There’s something so satisfying about the way it’s vibrations are able to reach every part of him, an all encompassing heat seizing his body, he couldn’t step away now even if he wanted to.

Which is why he steps forward instead, just barely pressing himself into the top corner, and even past the ringing in his ears he can hear the shout that leaves him, a staticky moan that trails off into more gasping breaths, processors desperately fighting overheating. It takes all of his remaining effort to lift himself to sit on top of the machine, and immediately he can tell he’s taken on too much.

He doesn’t even have a chance to make up a preconstruction like he usually does – ones that usually feature Hank in some way or another – before he’s being thrown over the precipice quicker than ever, sensors shorting out at too much sensation too quickly, and he can only open his mouth on a wordless shout before he’s dragged under.

When he reboots, a quick check tells him he’s been out for six seconds. It’s strange to not be hyper aware of everything for a few seconds while his systems try to catch up, unable to properly focus.

He’s so groggy that he doesn’t even notice that he’s tipping forward until the floor is rapidly approaching, and once he’s sprawled out in an ungraceful mess on the floor it takes him a few moment longer to really catch up, a minor damage warning alerting him to a couple of grazes on his face. Nothing that will take too long to heal – embarrassing nonetheless.

Hank comes back home an hour later and somehow Connor manages to dodge the question of “what the hell happened to your face” without him getting too suspicious. He makes up a story about tripping that gets a laugh out of him and the subject is dropped without too much fanfare, although his pump does do some irregular beats once Hank stops laughing and examines him closer, concern etched on his face when he asks if he needs anything to speed up the healing.

It becomes Connor’s routine for the next few weeks, his own little secret to occupy his time with while his working rights are trapped in a purgatory of red tape. He usually waits until Hank leaves, the older man seems to think it’s a good thing that he doesn’t want to do the grocery shopping anymore, or he sets the laundry off early in the morning when he knows Hank isn’t likely to wake.

Today he isn’t quite so patient. Nights spent in front of the TV with Hank are one of his favourite parts of the day – no, they’re definitely his favourite part. Over the months of Connor living in the house they’d been slowly growing closer night by night, until it had finally reached a head tonight with Connor daring to lean against him, trying to act relaxed and casual even as he’d been utterly overrun with processes dedicated to mapping out the shape of Hank’s body against him, his body heat leaving a lasting impression on him that he can still feel even now, hours later.

The big thing was that Hank hadn’t reacted badly too it, hadn’t pushed him away or accused him of reading the situation wrong. No, instead he’d lifted his arm to let Connor closer and wrapped it around him, a heavy weight over his shoulders while his hand fondly mussed up the unruly locks of his hair. He’d almost thought Hank was going to – no, that was wishful thinking on his part.

Although is it really wishful thinking after Hank has been slowly using any excuse to touch him for weeks? He’d put his entire arm around Connor’s waist just to get to a cabinet behind him one evening.

But it had left him beyond frustrated. Body aching for a way to relieve the pressure that had been steadily building up in him. He hasn’t been able to enter stasis all night, too busy calculating the chance of getting caught if he turns on the washing machine right now. Surely it’s been enough time for Hank to be in a deep sleep, right?

It’s this thought that stirs him to finally stand and creep towards the garage, stopping at the door to Hank’s room to listen for any signs of being awake. When there isn’t any he continues, trying to open the door quietly to not wake him as if he isn’t about to turn a machine on. Hopefully it’ll be like white noise and its whirring won’t rouse Hank.

...He should probably actually have something to wash though, at the very least as a backup excuse, and he tip toes into the bathroom to retrieve the contents of the laundry basket.

He’s lucky tonight, within the pile he spots Hank’s hoodie peeking out, apparently having been worn enough times to warrant a proper wash, and he separates it from the rest that he throws into the machine.

With no indication that Hank’s woken up during all of this, he silently toes out of his sweatpants, making sure they’re near just in case the worst case scenario of Hank walking in happens. Already his body is thrumming with excitement, and he lays the hoodie over the top of the machine before he climbs on. He hasn’t turned it on yet, but already the sensation of the sweatshirt’s rough fibres rolling over his sensors is enough to force him to start panting to expel overheated breaths.

He rolls his hips across the fabric a few times before he reaching down to press the machine on, a few beeps the only warning he gets before the now familiar thrum starts underneath him, gently at first, a soft massage that has him shivering.

“Hank...”

It doesn’t take long for him to become utterly absorbed in the sensation. Cyberlife’s most advanced android, distracted by something as simple as this, completely forgetting to dedicate a programme to checking Hank’s activity. By some cruel coincidence, he hears a noise, and watches with horror as the handle of the door starts turning.

“Hank!-” With a speed he didn’t know he was capable of, he manages to jump off and pull the sweatpants back on, even if he does nearly trip and give himself another graze to the face while Hank stumbles in, Sumo following curiously though he lingers just behind his owner. “I was just doing some more laundry!”

“It’s...” Hank squints and turns back to the hall to stare at the clock hanging there. “Four AM.” His processors fail to provide him with an excuse while Hank’s face only looks more confused when he actually looks at him. “Why’s my sweatshirt still on the washing machine?”

“I must have forgotten to put it in.” It’s a ridiculous excuse and they both know it, Connor doesn’t forget things easily and he definitely wouldn’t forget to put something in the washing machine if it was laid out on top of it.

“You forgot.” He says in disbelief, shutting the garage door behind him and Sumo only scratches at it a few times before they can hear him turn to lumber back to the main room.

“Huh.” He huffs in amusement and Connor is about to ask him what’s wrong but the human moves forward, continuing into the room fully.

“You wanna hop back up”? It’s said so casually that Connor can only watch him advancing closer, jaw slack.

It takes him a few beats to realise he didn’t just imagine Hank saying that, he had actually said it, and is now stood waiting for a response. “What?”

Another press into his space, near enough that Connor can feel the deep hum of his voice as if it’s right against him. “I said do you want to sit yourself back down?” He’s so close now that a single step forward would let Connor finally find out what his body would feel like pressed up against the bulk of Hank’s own.

Somehow in all the scenarios he’s imagined, Hank wandering in and being this forward has never been one of them, he’d always been scared that he’d just slam the door closed and storm away, that finding Connor like this would be some awkward secret they’d hold onto forever. Now that he’s here, right in front of him and offering to… to be involved, he freezes up.

“Hey,” Hank drops his advance for a few seconds in favour of cupping his jaw gently, coaxing Connor to look at him, thumb trailing featherlight over the curve of a high cheekbone. “Tell me to fuck off if I’m out of line here.” Even as sleepy as he is his eyes are clear, searching deep in Connor’s own for a reply, ready to back off at a word.

Connor can only answer with a shake of his head, wrapping an arm around Hank’s neck to pull him down, lips meeting clumsily in his desperation, small gasps leaving him as everything in him goes into overload cataloguing the feel of Hank’s lips against his, his beard grazing his chin, how small he feels when Hank’s arms curl around him. He’s rutting against the other man but he doesn’t care enough to be embarrassed about it, not when – past the sensation of Hank’s teeth pulling at his lip – he can feel Hank stirring against him.

Hank’s hands graze over the waistband of his sweatpants, pausing to wait for permission that Connor eagerly gives when he helps to push them down past his hips, only stopping because Hank suddenly halts, eyeing the blank space of his mound.

“I- I don’t have anything there.” Shame isn’t something he often feels about his body, he’d been built to be aesthetically pleasing and he’s never given it much thought beyond that. Still, there’s a small well of embarrassment pooling in him now that he’s stuck thinking about the differences between him and a human. “I wasn’t built for-”

Hank cuts off any more explanations with another kiss, helping him take the sweatpants off fully. “I don’t care about that,” He presses another kiss to the corner of Connor’s mouth when it lifts in a small smile. “still feels good, right?”

When he nods Hank takes it as a cue start backing him up towards the rumbling machine, small steps punctuated by small pecks to his lips, his cheekbones, his jaw. “Come on,” Large hands come to the back of his legs to cup just under his ass, a small encouragement to hop up.

If he thought the combination of Hank’s hoodie and the vibrations of the washing machine was overwhelming before, it’s nothing compared to now with Hank keeping him grounded while he moans and shakes against him, alternating between pressing down on the machine and rutting against the other man.

“Hank-” He cries out again when Hank drags a hand up his back, unknowingly grazing the port in his neck he’s yet to explore, another night, maybe. “I won’t last long.”

Hank only wraps him more securely in his arms, watching him unravel even if it’s impossible for him to see Connor’s face from the way he’s smushed it into his chest. He loses sense of how much time passes like that, certainly quicker than he would have liked, but he’s soon shorting out under the assault of sensation, crying out one final time against Hank, voice muffled in the pajama shirt he’s undoubtedly drooled on.

It doesn’t take too long for him to reboot, only around ten seconds, and he’s happy to note that Hank’s still holding him, it’s a much nicer awakening than the floor was. There’s a hand stroking gently through his hair, and Hank smiles at him when he turns his face up, squeezing him just that bit closer.

“You alright?” He gets his answer when Connor pulls away from his chest to capture his lips. It’s a simple kiss, but one that he hopes conveys everything he’s been feeling for the last few months.

When he shifts forwards to stand again he feels Hank’s cock nudge against him, Hank jolting a little in surprise when he cups him through his boxers. “Let me-”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I want to.” He groans when Connor touches him again, fingers slipping into his boxers to curl his fingers around his cock, sizing him up and he doesn’t need to see it to know that Hank’s big.

“Let’s move this somewhere else then.”

**Author's Note:**

> It is what it is
> 
> Twitter: @AGekkota


End file.
